


Dear Mr. Holmes

by mnm_moons



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, Irene is a tease, Letter Exchange, Letters, Postcards, Sherlock deduces, dont worry, except he is, except really fucking dramatic, im a slut for irenes hand writing, irene cant stay in one places thats all u need to know, irene loves sherlock, irene travels, its kind of like a long distance relationship, john is annoyed and ignored, john think sherlock is a brat but to be fair he is, messages, oh no i fucked up the tags again oops sorry, penpals except only one person writes because irene is a bitch like that, sherlock has no impulse control, sherlock isnt sentimental, someone pay attention to him please, they dont have sex there is no sex in this im sorry, they flirt, they play a game and i dont know who wins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-09
Updated: 2019-10-09
Packaged: 2020-11-28 06:31:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20962040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mnm_moons/pseuds/mnm_moons
Summary: Dear Mr. Holmes,I have no idea if you're even getting these letters. Not like you can write back. But maybe that's why I'm writing letters anyway. John Watson once said you'd outlive God trying to have the last word.Is it frustrating you now that you can't?-W.





	Dear Mr. Holmes

**Author's Note:**

> sgzgsgz im in love with this idea???
> 
> like sorry if it was written kinda sloppy because its like 1:03 and i wrote this on a random burst of energy from an impulse idea so sgzggggxgdx anyway!!
> 
> i hope u enjoy reading this because i enjoyed writing it ily!!

The first postcard comes in from America when the weather in Britain is cold and Sherlock is sitting on his kitchen table despite the chair in front of him.

When Sherlock turns the anonymous card in his hands, he's greeted by a vibrant photo of a pristine beach with clear waters and a sunny sky. In large, colorful letters, the words _Greetings from Florida! _are spelled out, made to look as if the words are coming at you from the photo. The vibrancy of the card almost tempts Sherlock to throw it away, but thinking better of it, he decides not to.

When the consulting detective turns the thick piece of paper again, swoopy cursive writing make out a message, addressed to 221B Baker Street in clear but fancy handwriting. The card is not dated.

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_Florida is hot and stuffy and full of lovers. I am just hot and stuffy. Wish you were here, then we'd have dinner and be lovers. But you wouldn't like that, would you?_

_-W._

Sherlock tries to fight the smallest bit of a grin from emerging in his face. The Woman. Of course.

The detective plays with the idea of how amusing it must've been 

"Anything good?" John Watson's voice calls from the sitting room, clearly asking about the mail. 

Sherlock doesn't need to look up to know the man had only woken up about half an hour or earlier. There's a gruffness to the man's voice that isn't there when he's more awake. 

Sherlock hums in thought before replying. "No," he says, and he pockets the postcard, ignoring John's curious look when he does. 

He will read the card obsessively until the next one comes.

* * *

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_California's a bit more interesting. If you'd have been here, you could have told me more about the actress who kissed me earlier tonight, I was quite confused on a particular detail about her earrings. But then again, if you were here, I wouldn't have had dinner with her in the first place._

_-W._

Sherlock's eyes scan the postcard for the hundredth time, taking in the elegant swoops and looseness of ink on glossy paper. He turns the card gently to stare at the photo of the Hollywood sign. 

"Second one this week," John Watson's voice observes. 

Sherlock's eyes flick to him for a moment before going back down to the card in his hands. "Yes, the post is sent out every day except Sundays," he replies monotonously. 

The man understands what question John's observation implies, of course, but he deliberately misunderstands. The Woman is, after all, legally dead, and John had a habit of announcing things that didn't need to be announced on his blog.

The doctor's voice is annoyed when he replies. "That's not what I meant and you know it."

Sherlock's gaze focuses in on his company again, this time paired with an innocent eyebrow raise. "Wasn't it?" He asks.

The innocence is too sincere to be Sherlock's. John frowns and resorts to grumbling something under his breath. Sherlock catches the words "difficult" and "childish" before he begins to drift off again.

A silence wraps the two as Sherlock goes back to analyzing the postcard on his hand. John stares and sighs. The silence stretches on for about a minute when John breaks it once more.

"Who are they from?"

Sherlock groans loudly.

* * *

It takes a week for the next postcard to arrive, and the anticipation for receiving one gnaws at Sherlock with fervor on the inside while he forces his expressions to remain calm every time the post is delivered.

He feels an odd sort of rewarding feeling when he feels the glossy texture of a postcard in between his fingers and he almost laughs at the thought of what the Woman would think if she saw him at his state.

She would probably smile at this, Sherlock thinks. At how he had begun to look at her small postcards as a reward. Enough of a reward to have him all but running to his door every morning when the postman slips the letters through his door.

John has stopped bothering trying to ask him about it by the seventh time Sherlock makes a reference to the fact that he carries a gun with him in his dressing gown at all times. Every morning, however, Sherlock sees John Watson roll his eyes as he watches the detective stroll up to the door to pick up the mail, a chore he usually didn't bother with until the postcards came through. Mrs. Hudson is only happy at the fact she doesn't have to collect it for them anymore. 

The third postcard is from Montreal and the photo in the front of the card features a view of the Canadian skyline along with towering buildings. Sherlock's attention, however, is focused more on the words on the other side of the card. 

The writing is more compacted, smaller to fit in more words.

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_there's nothing to say much about Canada. I have no idea if you're even getting these letters. Not like you can write back. But maybe that's why I'm writing to you instead of texting you. John Watson once said you'd outlive God trying to have the last word. _

_Is it frustrating you now that you can't?_

_-W._

Sherlock finds that the Woman is trying to make him angry. Or, he guesses. Usually, the detective doesn't like to guess, but with the Woman, a guess is something few can have about her. He has a guess, and others haven't the slightest idea.

Either way, he thinks the letters are the Woman's own revenge against him. 

But Sherlock doesn't understand, because the letters have done nothing but reward his brain with chemicals that make him feel better than the drugs do.

He doesn't understand why the Woman would think this were an unpleasant experience for Sherlock when he viewed them as everything but.

Maybe it was a game to her, Sherlock guesses. But he doesn't know enough of it to play.

* * *

It is by the fourth letter when Sherlock understands.

The fourth postcard isn't a postcard. It arrives in an envelope, brown and with the telltale signs of spilled water having been dried from it. 

The envelope, when smelled experimentally by Sherlock, smells odd and salty. He immediately recognizes the smell of the ocean.

John walks by with an empty cup and comments, "An envelope. That's an upgrade." before he walks to the kitchen counter to make himself tea. Sherlock can't find himself to stray his focus from the envelope enough to glare at John. Instead, he grunts half heartedly and begins to tenderly open the letter, making sure not to tear the envelope too much.

There is nothing but a folded up page of paper and sand. Sherlock fishes the letter out and turns the envelope upside down. The sand dumps over to the carpet, into a messy pile. He lets out an amused breath. 

"Oh for God's sakes-!" John's voice calls from the kitchen. "Sherlock!"

"Yes, yes," Sherlock mumbles, his voice dismissive. "I'll clean it up later...." He won't, of course, he never does. But John only rolls his eyes.

Sherlock unfolds the letter and begins to read.

_Dear Mr. Holmes,_

_I never fully understood the beauty of seaside fishing towns until now. I wasn't really one for the thoughts of living in one as a child. Too secluded for my tastes. See, I always have to be the center of attention. _

_But there is a charm to it, I promise. The boats get annoying at night at times, but the stars are wonderful here. You know, I think you never really comprehend the beauty of the northern lights until you see them up close. It's all very mesmerizing._

_The moon is pretty on the water, too. Something sensual in the thought of seeing the same moon, don't you think? The same moon I see through my window is the same moon you see through yours. _

_Think about that tonight. _

_Not yours,_

_W._

There's a sinking feeling somewhere in Sherlock's stomach. He blames it on the fact he hasn't eaten today, but deep down, he knows that isn't true.

Sherlock so desperately wants to write back, to say something witty, to.... have the last word.

The detective curses under his breath.

He hated the fact the Woman hadn't added her exact location the way the postcards did. There were no bright letters welcoming him to places he didn't go. No names of states or pictures of landmarks. No places. Somehow, not knowing where she was upset him greatly. 

Irene had, however, added just enough clues to her letter to let him piece a few of them together. 

_A seaside fishing town_, Sherlock re-reads. Somewhere up North, judging by the Woman's description of the Aurora Borealis. The envelope came watermarked, and Sherlock recognizes it from a specific store with a small branch, situated in the Eastern side of Canada. Information matches up, considering how her last letter was from Montreal. 

Four seaside fishing towns in Canada pop up in his head and it frustrates him how he can't figure out which one she's staying in. His eyes fall to the carpet where the mound of sand the Woman so humorously placed in the envelope sat. He frowns.

A quick scan in the lab would so easily tell him where she was -

Sherlock's eyes widen. 

"You all right?" John's voice calls out to him at the sight of the sudden realization on his face.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrow and his lips turn at a hard frown. "She's setting me up!" He exclaims. 

John raises an eyebrow at his exclamation. "What now?"

"Obvious!" Sherlock continues. "Leave me with just enough clues to figure out a piece of the puzzle, then hand me the last piece willingly! Oh, she's good."

John blinks and sets his tea down on the counter. "Yeah, yeah. I'm not following. Who's 'she'?"

"The sand, John, the sand!" He breathes in. "Oh, _this_ is the game she's playing. She _wants_ me to deduce her, to have the last word, to _prove_ she has me figured out!" 

"To have the last word?" John repeats under his breath, a distant memory at the tip of his tongue. "Wait, is this about Irene Adler?"

But Sherlock has already departed to his room, mumbling under his breath.

* * *

Many more letters arrive.

_Dear Mr. Holmes, I detest the weather up here. Too humid for my liking...._

_Dear Mr. Holmes, I think the insects here have it out for me...._

_Dear Mr. Holmes, I paragliding is very underrated, I recommend it sometimes...._

_Dear Mr. Holmes, is not being able to reply getting under your skin? It's getting under mine...._

_Dear Mr. Holmes, gondolas are fun to ride...._

_Dear Mr. Holmes, I've recently discovered how mimes have a charm clowns can't hope to replicate...._

John seems pleased about figuring out the letters were from Irene Adler and stops asking, instead just frowning with displeasure when a letter comes in. 

Sherlock manages to piece parts of the puzzles together, but the Woman is clever. She never really lets him have the full puzzle, but she does let him have a taste at it. 

Her letters contain clues. Some in the writing, but the big ones are in the items she sends. In one memorable occasion, the Woman has a small bottle of alcohol in one of the envelopes, leaving Sherlock to wonder how she had been able to smuggle that through the post.

Sherlock has to restrain himself from letting her win. He doesn't let himself linger on the letters for long - he finds that the longer he reads them, the stronger the urge to book a flight to where she was grows. So he allows himself two reads and two minutes of examination before he locks the letters in a cabinet. 

Sherlock does, however, get the vaguest ideas of the places she visits. 

He knows she'd gone to China, then hopped to South America's, staying at Brazil in two seperate locations, then a couple more countries in a random order. She'd gone somewhere in Dubai, then as if to taunt him, she'd started getting closer.

Greece. Then Italy. Then France. The letters stopped at France.

Sherlock had to grit his teeth when he read the letter from Italy. Something about Gondolas and sweet little houses. She was _so close. _So close to him. The closest she'd been in ages, even if she was a country away.

And then she went to France and got closer. 

* * *

The envelope comes in on a Sunday. 

A white envelope, this time. There's nothing significant about this one, nothing that might clue him as to where she is. Through the paper, Sherlock feels an object.

With gentle hands, the detective opens the letter and the smallest bit of a reflective twinkle comes from the inside. Metal. Sherlock fishes out the contents of the envelope.

A brief examination reveals the object to be a key chain, entirely black and insignificantly rectangle if not for the small button on its side and the chain.

"What's that?" John's voice asks from up the stairs, muffled by the sound of some loud comedy show on the telly. 

Sherlock purses his lips. He examines it a second time, noting nothing but it's insignificance. "A key chain," he says. Then to himself, he mumbles, "Don't see how that's a clue."

"No, I meant the envelope," the doctor clarifies, clearing his throat. "Post doesn't operate on Sundays."

Sherlock's heart pounds in his chest when John's words are fully comprehended. His pulse threatens to escape his wrists and he hears nothing but the sound of someone shift outside the door and feels nothing but the feeling of the key chain on his hand.

His thumb finds itself over the button on the side of the key chain. With a hitching breath, the detective presses the button.

In bright red neon lights, the words _WELCOME TO LONDON! _flash obnoxiously on the novelty tourist key chain before fading out back to black. 

Sherlock turns sharply and opens the door with a little too much force than necessary. When the door is out of the way, Sherlock sees her.

There, in all her glory, is Irene Adler, a soft smile plastered on her blood lips, her knowing eyes twinkling with playful youth and the slightest bit of hidden mischief. Her smile is ever so confident and her posture ever so self-aware.

She parts her lips and Sherlock can focus on nothing but the captivating red. With the same, familiar drawl of her posh and defined accent, she asks, "Did you miss me?" 

And, well, how else could he respond to that if not to answer, slowly but breathily, "Yes."

**Author's Note:**

> i dont really have anything to say about it. im happy with how it turned out. really loved it but i didnt know how to end it so szggsvx i'll leave that to ur imagination i mean idk maybe they fuck or something. maybe they play chess. ooh i love that idea,,,, if u end up writing adlock playing chess pls link me to that because i fucking love that idea and id worship u if u wrote it
> 
> anyway i need to sleep sgzgsg okok pls pls pls consider leaving a kudos or comment because that like sort of helps me like a lot u know. i love those. i'll try my best to reply to them if u do sgzgs
> 
> oh!! and if u want pls consider following my tumblr @skittlesun (https://www.tumblr.com/blog/skittlesun) thank uuuuu
> 
> ily have a good morning/day/afternoon/evening/night!  
ur the best good bye <3
> 
> alex


End file.
